Summer is Not Safe
by RhoddyHyde
Summary: "Keep Summer safe." Rick said. Set after "The Rick's Must Be Crazy". Summer and some introspection and some unhealthy coping mechanisms. TW: eating disorder, maybe ptsd, possible suicidal thoughts. probably out of character, definitely au, kind of stream of consciousness and a new epistolary chapter.
1. the first crack

**A/N** : _I do not own Rick and Morty. I do not profit from this work. This is unbetaed. Read at your own risk._

"Keep Summer safe." Rick had said and Summer had proceeded to feel the least safe of her life.

Summer, for all her teenage proclivities, is nothing more than a narcissist and it's not that it really matters because all the boys, all the parties, all the popularity chasing and cajoling and guilt tripping are just another page on the journey towards attaining something unachievable. Maybe she's messed up but the apple falls straight down, baby, and she's not a baby. Not anymore. She's perfectly good and healthy, while a man lies diced to bits and another is crawling his useless legs away from her [because of her] and she wants to say she's sorry, and she wants to say she doesn't mean it, and she wants to, she wants to, she want to-  
But.  
What she _does_ say is, "What took you so long, Grandpa Rick? Finally!" and "You're so lame, Morty!" and stick her nose in her phone and pretend to surf the non-existent Wifi that's out in the godforsaken middle of nowhere ice cream place and tune out aggrieved exclamations of "Aw, geez!" in between berating Rick for being an egomaniacal douchebag when he (they?) was [were] fixing the engine(s?) and Rick berates her for ruining ice cream in this dimension.

* * *

When they get home, she goes to the bathroom to get ready for bed and ends up leaning against the counter. She feels sick to her stomach with fly legs skittering about her insides. She can nearly feel them, coagulating in her stomach, filthy and filmy and grimy and wrong. And that's what the whole evening had felt like. Wrong. Just. Wrong. Because the man diced to cubits had a family and a career and a wife and a _kid_ and his friend had very much the same thing. (he was a _paediatrician_ ) And exploiting another man's traumatized psyche in the name of some arbitrary command does not sit well with Summer.

She feels...she feels _awful_ and she stands by the mirror in the bathroom and stares at the planes of her face and wonders, 'was she worth the aggravation?' Couldn't she have stopped all of this? _Shouldn't_ she have stopped all of this? And then that voice, that dastardly little voice in her head, tells her that she could have solved this whole debacle if she had just ceased to exist because if she didn't exist there wouldn't be anyone to protect and no one would need to get killed or paralyzed or traumatized. And then that little voice pushes further [like it always does] and says, just like your non-existence would cause your parents happiness, your grandpa's sobriety and your grandma's presence and the world would be better for the cessation of your existence. Your parents could have gotten together like normal people who actually chose their own misery and had Morty, the one they expected, the one they planned for, the one they _wanted_ and she could absolve herself of this thrice accursed angst and guilt and hurt and hatred. She's usually good at ignoring the little voice by tapping into social media and cyber stalking friends and enemies alike or drowning it out by snarking as loudly as possible at the people around her or distracting it away with trips or dates or tv or work but right now, she has none of those things.

It's 1am, she's just gotten back from a rare trip with Rick and Morty where she has been graced with the boon of being allowed to accompany them and none of her friends are responding to her texts or messages after she so thoroughly shamed Maria on Instagram by exposing the photoshop that led to her sugar daddy breaking up with her as well as her boyfriend, who was unaware of said sugar daddy. Which, at the age of seventeen, how was that even a thing? And now... now she's stuck. With herself. And she feels sick. She feels her stomach sit uneasily, as it sometimes does, tense and sensitive when she can't seem to disregard that fucking voice in her head when it's being ridiculous. She feels her stomach burble ominously and her gorge rises until she is sick in the sink and some of the countertop. She feels the flies and their fuzzy, sticky, disgusting bodies coming up the back of her throat and in her mouth and the ashy taste of their horrid little corpses and she convulses again. Because her brain came up with _corpses_ and and it's making all these annoying little connections as she manages to stagger to the toilet and her brain is running away from her, thinking of the _corpse_ of that man all cut up into cubes and how ever through the insulation of Rick's spaceship, she _swears_ she could somehow smell his blood and guts and skin and bone, all the marrow leaking out. And she heaving again, the mushy tacky insides of her memory melting through to the amorphous, gelatinous ectoplasm that made up the body bomb of that little boy who _broke_ a man so thoroughly that it scared hardened admirals and soldiers of war into shocked submission.

Her eyes and mouth and nose are streaming with spit and snot and tears and she's panting like she's done an olympic sprint but her stomach feels nothing but empty and her brain...her brain feels like it's rebooting. That _fucking_ voice blessedly silent and the thoughts that are barely there seem sluggish and half baked. She flushes the toilet and cleans the sink and countertop before cleaning herself, looking in the mirror and managing to meet her reflection's gaze.

* * *

She goes downstairs to get a drink and she sees the outline of Rick sitting in front of the TV and watching intergalactic cable, routinely tipping a bottle into his mouth. She reaches into the fridge for a drink and her stomach clenches uncomfortably so instead she grabs some ice from the freezer. She sucks on a cube and considering the whole evening, wonders what Rick's reasons are for how old and jaded and crotchety he is. If she could even comprehend what sorts of awful things he's caused or done and moreso, how little he must care or expound not to that he's down here in the middle of the night, drinking his thoughts to placation in his unemployed son-in-law's house, in whatever infinite incarnation of family life he has invaded for the umpteenth time wherein he abuses said son-in-law routinely. She sees Rick's shoulders stiffen as ice in her glass settles loudly while it warms incrementally and she doesn't think she can face him tonight, like this. She feels jittery and strange: hollow yet weighted and just generally overwrought. She knows with a damning uncertainty that when the wrong thing inevitably falls out of his mouth, she just might do something stupid and she also knows that she _can't_ disturb their already tenuous relationship in a house already divided. So she shifts the ice melting in her mouth and clears her throat, the sound unusually deep and phlegmy and so unlike herself, but she did just spend a good half hour upchucking her guts out so it's not unexpected. She shouldn't be surprised.

She calls out, "Goodnight Grandpa Rick," in a tone that she most decidedly does not feel but kind of needs to hear and be heard and is somewhat comforted to hear his grumbling response, "Yeah, yeah Sum-uurrp-mer. Get th-th-the fuck to sleep otherwise Be-euurrgh-th'll kill me." And both of them know that's a lie since Beth acts like the sun shines out of Rick's ass but Summer suddenly feels so unconscionably tired that she can't even muster up the energy to respond. She stares at the back of his head for a bit, backlit by the pixels of their now less shitty TV, courtesy of one Rick Sanchez, and sighs. Because after spending half an hour reliving, in gruesome gorey imagined detail, all the things she should have been strong enough to ignore and smart enough to rationalize away, the haze of pain, emotional and self-inflicted has weakened the resolve that usually knows what to do with that _fucking_ voice that's telling her that she really shouldn't be disappointed that Rick hates her as much as he does because she is the direct and explicit evidence of the sum of his failings, as a father, as a man and as a human who had been unable to help his own flesh and blood, the fruit of his looms, become whatever greatness he professes to possess and that every time he looks at her, he is struck in the face with his own frailty and inadequacy and if she were in his position, she would probably hate herself, too. So she just turns around and shuffles off to her room, climbing the stairs like they're a nigh insurmountable mountain to overcome.

She doesn't notice Rick swivel his head so his profile is visible as she silently turns her back to him. She doesn't see his eyebrows come down when she quietly shuffles off to the stairs. She sees only the back of his head from between the rails of the staircase bannister, swigging another swash of probably more potent than any available on this planet or dimension, she would bet on it. The thought of alcohol makes her swallow compulsively and it hurts, like she's swallowed a scrub brush and it's scraped her esophagus raw on the way down, where it now sits in her stomach, hideously prickly and discomfiting. The cool ice cubes, numbing her tongue, the ice cold water sliding down her throat and settling in her gut is blessedly, refreshingly cold. She's _fine_.

* * *

She dreams incomprehensible snatches of panic and fear and wakes up in a cold sweat, panting raggedly, the cup of ice on her bedside table melted into water, and she snatches it in clammy hands to drink away the odd taste in her mouth, nearly rotten like-  
She stops the thought right there but the water sits heavily in her stomach regardless. When she gets up, she can feel it sloshing and walking to the bathroom leaves her feeling queasy. She spends way too long in the shower, hunched over in the bottom of the tub, feeling oddly protected by the heat and the steam captured by the tiles and the curtains and the raised, smooth, curving edges of the tub. She crunches over completely, chest falling on her knees and lets the stream hit her back, the shift in height making the droplets feel more forceful, like a massage jet instead of a badly pressurized showerhead.

She focuses on the borderline painful feeling, on the rhythm of the water and the heat eking incrementally into her bones, as though it has to traverse through layers of skin and fat and muscle and ligaments and whatever else is in there before it can hit that place that will finally make her feel warm. The water starts to turn cool and she shifts awkwardly to adjust the heat, fiddling in distracted frustration before the water feels even cooler and she just realizes that she's just used it all up, it's not malfunctioning. She sighs gustily in exasperation and heaves herself up and out of the tub, feeling about a million years old, the air on her skin cooling the heat she had so painstakingly cultivated and she's cold again, inexplicably quickly. She dries herself off as fast as she can all the while feeling like she's moving through molasses, so her skin is covered in goosepimples by the time she's dry. She leaves the towel wrapped around herself as she drapes her robe over her shoulders.

She finds herself caught staring at the fogged mirror and the hazy humanoid shape there and for a fleeting moment wonders if she could just float in that space of existence without consequences, of a being without details; of just living...without the complications and pain they [she] inevitably cause[s] and- she turns on the tap and reaches for the toothbrush. Now is not the time to be like this. Now is the time to think practically and prepare for the rigours of a whole eight hours surrounded by people like her, without the compunctions of a fully developed conscience to hold them back. She spits in the sink.

* * *

Summer slinks downstairs to a passive aggressive conversation between her parents that Rick is uncharacteristically staying out of, while Morty mechanically shovels eggs into his mouth. She makes to collapse at the chair where her breakfast sits before Dad's saying, "Summer, honey, you're already late. I don't know what you were doing-"  
Her mother interjects immediately with, "She's a teenage girl, not a _slug_ , Jerry. She does what all of us do-"  
"Well, _excuse_ me for having some common courtesy, Beth. I'm not-"  
"I'm surprised you even know the meaning of the phrase when you barge into my office while I'm _operating_ -!"  
"Oh, is that what they call it nowadays?"  
"What does _that_ mean?!"  
"You don't think I haven't noticed how hunky your assistant is-"  
"You are _such_ -"  
"-and how he's somehow _always_ around you when I drop-"  
"- _ass_ , Jerry! How could you even say-"  
Summer glances at her phone and realizes that for once, Dad was right, and school started fifteen minutes ago. She drops the piece of toast she was about to bite into and it clatters on her plate as she stands up and asks, somewhat frazzled, "Can I use the car? Dad's right, we're late-"  
"What?" Beth startles mid-shout and Summer's snapping sarcastically back, "You know, your _daughter_ and your _son_? Who go to _school_? Need to get there, like, a.s.a.p, since you-"  
"Okay, Summer." Mom cuts her off, "I know you're late but I've got a critical procedure scheduled this morning and I just can't make it in time if I have to make the detour to Herpson." She takes a sanctimonious sip of coffee.  
Dad's looking speculatively around the table and says, "You _know_... _your_ dad has got that portal thingy, he could-"  
"I-I've got a ve-eurgh-ry important business deal going down, Jerry. Unlike some lo-osers, I'm busy." Rick downs his glass of juice in one go, followed by a disgustingly long belch that has Summer grateful she didn't ingest anything yet.  
"Aw, geez Rick!" Morty interject, "You-you can j-just zap the portal there and we'll, uh, just step th-through."  
"No can do, Mo-eurgh-orty." Rick replies, "I-I need all the juice for the-the trip today. Actually, I'll need some help, it-it's pretty important...Beth..." He trails off suggestively to which Mom turns her limpid, doe eyes up at him and Summer knows she's lost the argument before it's even started. She huffs and says, "I'll just walk, I guess!" in the loudest, most long-suffering voice she can muster and when that does even garner a break in the bickering about Morty's attendance, Summer stomps off, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder and furiously texting with fingers shaking out of _anger_ [not-hurt], dammit, and she slams the front door viciously behind her.

* * *

She's walked nearly a quarter of the way there before Ethan's rolled up in his Mom's luxury SUV. They have a very awkward ride where Ethan pretends that he didn't just dump his girlfriend because of Summer's social media brashness while Summer pretends that she totally meant to be texting Ethan her angry rant and emergency pleas this morning and it wasn't just the slip of a fury hazed mind and frustration shaken fingers that tapped _Ethan_ instead of _Ethel._ (It's not Ethel's fault her parents are late stage hipsters and she got saddled with their weirdness. Namely, the name.)

They start talking about their families just as Ethan pulls into the student parking lot and Summer knows there's no avoiding the info or tone of her texts this morning, so she sucks it up, prepared to do some uncomfortable explaining, and is actually surprised to hear that Ethan has problems of his own at home. He was always this untouchable poster boy of popularity and perfection that she fangirled over from afar but when she really thinks about it, Summer can't say she's surprised that he's got his own complications. She knows firsthand that appearances can be deceiving, after last night. So she tells him that she gets it and he looks at her like he's just discovered this painting he really likes for the very first time.  
"You know, they're wrong about you, Summer. You're pretty cool." Ethan says softly and they're unbuckling their seatbelts and he leans closer and he's got his hand on her hand and-

*BRING*

The bell for second period rings and they both jerk away. She thanks Ethan hastily for the lift before nearly, but not exactly, fleeing from the vehicle, flummoxed by how quickly things had progressed but secretly pleased that he found her desirable. Her hand, where he had touched her feels unnaturally sensitive and warm, almost pleasantly tingly and she floats through the hallways to her locker where she quickly forges a note for the attendance office like they've all done before.

* * *

The reception of the attendance office is manned by none other than Nancy who Summer hasn't spoken to since she never rejoined band at the end of vacation when she realized that even if there were beautiful people in band, none of them were popular. Characteristics, neither of which Nancy possesses, so Summer cut her losses and moved to different [better] circles.

"Hey, erm, Nancy." Summer greeted hesitantly. Nancy just levelled a gaze in her direction, taking in Summer's mussed hair and rumpled shirt from her walk earlier.  
"I just need a late pass." Summer says casually and Nancy raises her eyebrows.  
"Ethan's not a very _fast_ driver, is he?" Nancy asks archly, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head in the direction of the window which has a perfect view of the entrance to the student lot. Summer suppresses a grimace, because while Nancy may not run in the same circles as Summer does these days, gossip manages to supercede all social boundaries at HH.  
She grits out, through teeth bared in a facsimile of a grin,"It was nice of him to give me a ride."  
"Oh, I _bet_ it was..." Nancy trails of meaningfully just as Mrs. O'Neill steps out of her office, closing the door softly behind her before coming to the desk.  
"Hi Mrs. O'Neill!" Summer says a little too loudly, relieved at the interruption.  
"Hello...Summer?" Mrs. O'Neill responds. Right. Morty's the infamous one roundabout this office. Shit. Summer forgot about writing him a note. Ah, well. She can always get Mum to make a call...or forge a note for tomorrow... _if_ Morty comes in tomorrow. Summer frowns and focuses on Mrs. O'Neill who's saying, "...and I suppose you'll be wanting a late slip, then? Summer?"  
"Oh, yeah! Here you go." She hands the note she'd made minutes before in exchange for a pass. Mrs. O'Neill glances at it briefly before placing it in a tray on the desk and disappearing back into her office. Summer leaves before Nancy can start on more pressing innuendo laden non-sequiturs. She sees Ethan in the hallway, heading her way but books it to her second period when Mr. Vagina accosts him, seemingly out of nowhere.

* * *

Summer comes home to a beleagured Jerry and a more than slightly tipsy Beth arguing over something while Rick is monologuing to what looks like a very drained Morty pushing food around his plate. She slips past the tableau of 'family, dinnertime' and up the stairs. Ignores Beth's slightly confused cries of "Summer?" and "...experiments in the house, Rick..."

She's just dumped her bag and her body on her desk chair when Morty falls through the door into her dorm room and she just looks at him because, somehow, that voice in her head can't shut the fuck up and it's saying that this is _not_. her. Morty. Her Rick and her Morty were too stupid or too reckless or too dumb or too careless and _her_ Morty is buried in a shallow grave in their own backyard and there's nothing she or anyone else can do about it now. Notwithstanding Rick's genius, dead is dead. And this Morty, this _Rick_ , more accurately, is too enterprising and rough to give a shit about how ethical it is to completely decimate one world and one family and leave them for another. And that this Morty is [weak] dumb enough and easily cowed enough to make this mess and follow Rick rather than avoid it and keep Rick in check. She looks up and even though the voice is saying all these logical, rational, deductive conclusions, evidenced by hard fact, all she can see is _her_ little brother. His stupid ugly face and his stupid skinny arms and his stupid, prepubescent voice and his stupid, crackling stutter that half infuriates her, half endears him to her and of course the only person who can fun of it is her. And she sighs. Because Morty was right. This. Right now. This is what matters. And more importantly she cares. And most importantly, despite all of this, she still loves him. This trans-dimensional version of himself. "L-listen, Summer, I kn-know Rick can be an asshole but he-"

She gets up and hugs him and he stutters himself to a stop, (Aw geez, Summer!) stiff in surprise before hugging her back. She thinks of yesterday and all the drama over one outing, not even an 'adventure', meanwhile Morty's been on dozens of them now and he's still here, still standing, still hanging around and not falling apart too visibly at the seams. She loves him. His stupid hair and his stupid eyesore of a shirt and his stupid stutter, she loves every stupid bit of him because though she mourned her deadly deceased brother, she didn't have to bury him. _He_ did. And she's not sure she could have done something like that and treated her new sibling with the same level of normality [kindness] as Morty is treating her. Her little brother, and he _is_ her little brother, no matter what dimension he's from, is _still_ her little brother. And she tells the voice that won't ever rarely shut up that maybe nobody wants _her_ but Morty never wanted any of this either and everyone's got their problems, but _her_ little brother shouldn't have to feel like shit over stuff that isn't his fault. She hugs him a little tighter, as this thought crosses her mind and Morty returns the squeeze, hugging her tighter back, before she pulls away and punches his arm.

" _Ow_!" He whines, "What was that for?"  
"For being in my room, you dork." She says, voice slightly choked and quickly turns her face to look out the window at the yard beyond as she tunes Morty out until she hears, "...watch Ball Fondlers?" and she jerks, saying, "No." The sharp feeling of phantom pincers at her back have her saying that she's going for a run instead [she won't be trapped again] which has Morty shrugging, "Your loss," before heading downstairs. She can feel him lingering at her doorway a bit, like he has something more to say, but the silence stretches and when she turns to look back at him, he's already gone.

* * *

So she goes for a run and pretends she's not trying to escape all the aliens and monsters they've encountered during Rick's short internment with them. Pretends that she doesn't not know that she's most definitely _not_ trying to leave her own monsters behind. The ones with the ugly claw hooked hands that sink into her thoughts like they belong there, reminding her that she doesn't belong anywhere. So she runs and runs and runs until she pukes to dry heaves, bile burning her throat, in a bush four streets over and she knows that she's being stupid but the apple falls straight down, baby, and if two generations of her own genetics are prone to self destructive tendencies, who is she to break with tradition?

She walks home, slowing down and definitively _not_ avoiding the open garage, certainly _not_ sneaking past the kitchen and living room where the TV is blaring. She feels like a wrung out piece of laundry left out in the sun, bleached and stiff and hanging on by a peg. She slips into the bathroom, turns on the tap and drinks until she feels full, eyes sliding past her reflection. She keeps them shut when she steps into the shower, turning the heat up until she feels like she's scalded wherever the water hits and reaches for the shampoo. She's not drowning her sorrows in alcohol, she's not drowning at all. She's _fine_.


	2. Summer the Vampire Slayer-Prelude

_Disclaimer: I do not own Rick and Morty. I make no profit from this work. This is unbetaed. Read at your own risk._  
TW: Corpse mentioned.

 **Summary** : A bloody development, a few flashbacks, and a bad habit in the making.  
Happy Holidays.

* * *

Summer's not a _bad_ person, _perse..._ [Liar, liar. They don't know how you **think-** ] But she still hooks up with Ethan at Fiona Gorchinski's halloween party, in the upstairs guest bathroom after she'd just walked away from Maria. [and her bad-mouthing, rumour-mongering, dick-sucking, whore mouth.]

She's already four jaeger bombs in, when she spots Maria surrounded by a group of the most beautiful people in school. The _look_ Maria'd given Summer when she caught sight of her by the hookah in the kitchen, made it abundantly clear that whatever she was saying was nothing Summer wanted to hear. All Summer can focus on is their gorgeous faces as they sneak glances at her and suddenly she _needs_ to get **out** of there because she can feel herself slipping. She hears only the roaring of her ears, as though she'd permanently affixed seashells to both. Everything comes through as though from a great distance; speech and music and noise just meshed into this melting kaleidoscope of sensory input that fully scrambles figures and shapes until they are indecipherable from their surroundings and she becomes nearly incognizant to the world around her. She resurfaces, hunched over a toilet seat, emptying her guts of the beers they'd had at Mischa's and the shots she'd knocked back afterwards, to the tune of disgusted exclamations. She's panting and coughing, out of breath, her head still pounding but clear. Tears trail down her cheeks but she can hear the voices filtering in:

"Ew! Gross!"

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

Summer lifts her head to catch the backs of a couple of fairy wings bobbing away before the door shuts. She stumbles over to the sink and catches sight of her reflection. She looks absolutely **wrecked**. Her eyes puffy and bloodshot, her mascara gone to bits, tracks of black, like railroads of tears, her lipstick smudged around her mouth amidst bits of vomit and strings of viscous saliva and snot. Summer's chest tightens and her throat constricts ['Who's the whore now? You certainly _look_ the part,' the voice whispers snidely.] but she has nothing else in her stomach to heave so she tears her gaze away and lathers up her hands and face with the soap in the elegantly crafted porcelain dish, intricately carved and richly scented. She washes the vomit and drool off her face slowly, with hands, that though still and sure, somehow feel as though they are shaking. She rinses her mouth out over and over, scrubbing a finger at her smooth teeth. The soap smells so delicate and yet fragrant that she washes her hands again to get the sour stench of vomit away and finds she's lathered down her neck where the saliva had dripped and up her cheeks to wash away the mascara smudges and she ignores the voice that says washing her face with soap is terrible for her skin and closes her eyes gently passing her soapy slick fingers over them. It feels like a massage and Summer has to force herself to stop when she can feel the lather around her chin and neck drying so she reluctantly rinses off, the water lukewarm and lovely.

She actively avoids looking at her reflection as she snatches a hand towel off the rack and buries her face into it, wishing she could just disappear; fall into this towel and wake up at home, in her bed and start this whole day over again, where she doesn't slut herself up, pre-game at Mischa's and stagger over here. She wishes she'd agreed with Ethel and insisted that they attend the totally lame poetry slam where at least five people are guaranteed to have recited Edgar Allen Poe and excerpts of Lovecraft at the vegan coffee shop down in Herpson Central.

The door opens and Summer jerks her head up from the towel, confronted with Ethan's lanky frame, his face settling into a discomfiting expression that has the voice's hackles up [This handsome boy **_pities_** you. How could you ever hope to **attract** him when he sees you as nothing more than the loser who killed his perfect relationship with the most popular girl in school?]

"Hey." He says tentatively, softly shutting the door behind him.

"Hey." Summer whispers back, her voice still phlegmy and hoarse. Ethan takes her in for a brief blink before turning round to lock the door, pausing once it's clicked. Summer just watches him; his broad back clothed in its customary wrinkled dress shirt, jarring against the pristine white of Fiona's tiled bathroom.

"Listen, I just came up to see if you were okay..." He starts hesitantly as he turns back to face her. "...some people were saying you were sick?" He's defensive.

"Beer before liquor, never sicker." Summer manages to rasp out dryly and the tension around Ethan's shoulders seems to dissipate minutely which Summer only notices since he's taken steps that much closer.

"That's dumb." He says.

"Never happening again." Summer retorts with feeling and Ethan chuckles.

"You find my pain funny?" Summer asks, a part of her genuinely affronted at his laughter. ['Not such a good boy, after all. Just like you,' the voice whispers.] Ethan's still smiling, his eyes crinkling all adorably at her when he says, "Oh, I remember the first time I did that." Summer quirks an eyebrow. "You're lucky." He continues, the smile fading and Summer crosses her arms, the towel tangling between then as she takes a breath, preparing for an argument. Ethan's eyes widen and he hurriedly explains, "Ended up at the hospital. They had to pump my stomach." He quirks his lips in a facsimile of a smile that ends up looking appropriately macabre for halloween.

"Oh my god." Summer says before she can stop herself from sounding like a bible thumper at a pride parade. Only alcoholics and idiots get their stomachs pumped and she knows Ethan's not stupid or addicted so there must have been a reason why it happened.

But.

She's not a psychiatrist and the knowledge that his ex is downstairs, spreading malicious half-truths about her, hangs heavy over her head so she just says, "I'm glad you're okay," with genuine relief lacing her tone and something in Ethan's gaze intensifies.

"Well..." he starts, drawing out the syllable at its vowelled centre. Summer waits, leaning against the bathroom counter with one hip.

"Me and my brother went on a hunting trip." Ethan begins, his eyes glazing over at those words, expression distant and closed. He continues woodenly, "I told my mom that I never wanted to go again but she just said it was 'good, character-building, exercise'."

Summer places the towel on the counter, her hand fisting in the terrycloth folds.

"We played a drinking game but I didn't know until later that they spiked mine. " Ethan finishes, staring glassy-eyed into the distance.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Ethan," Summer responds automatically and can't help herself from moving closer. Ethan looks down at her just as she makes the step, hand reaching to pat his arm in consolation, "That's _awful_." He mirrors her, stepping forward with an arm outstretched and they meet in the middle: an impromptu hug.

They stay like that, time suspended for a breath and then Ethan murmurs, "Thanks Summer." Summer stiffens, apprehensively asking, "For what?" She loosens her arms but Ethan holds her steady in his embrace and turns his head to look her in the eyes.

"For listening." He says. His irises are beautifully flecked with pieces of amber. He's nearly whispering now, tone so soft, the words all sibilant, "I've never told anyone about that." Summer can see every freckle across the bridge of his nose and sprinkled on the apples of his cheeks. "You're just so easy to talk to," he praises, eyes half-lidded. He licks his lips.

[Kiss him, you idiot! He's asking for it!] Summer falls back on second nature and ignores the voice, saying instead, "Thanks. I me-"

Ethan kisses her.

* * *

Monday morning, Summer gets up and puts balm on her [deliciously ravaged] lips, poutier than she's ever seen them, and dabs concealer on the blotched love bites peppering her skin. She smooths foundation down her neck and collarbones, settles a sweater down her shoulders and chest and wraps a scarf around the whole thing for some extra insurance, passing it off as a 'look' when Beth makes a comment at the breakfast table.

"Well...okay, honey." Beth pacifies, backing down, but Summer doesn't miss how Mom adjusts her shirt as she sips her coffee, hands settling for a brief moment on the base of her bare throat. Summer smirks into her orange juice.

Jerry starts in on seriously needling Beth about the car then, and the possibility of a second one, so Summer turns to Morty. "What did **_you_** do for Halloween?" She asks, her tone self-assured and smug. She's certain he did nothing at all and is fully prepared to lord her exciting night over his when he chokes out, around a mouthful of bacon, "Rick had t-to drop off some K-klaxon shells at th-the Krombobulous Galaxy. " The juice sours in Summer's stomach and Rick turns it rancid as he interrupts with, " **Kromulons** , Morty!" And burps spectacularly. "Had a...had a whole di-urgh-plomatic shitstorm about that."

"Wow. Doing boring deliveries on Halloween." Summer snarks derisively as she cuts into her pancakes, achingly careful to sound as careless and snide as she can.

Rick just snorts. "Better than...better than playing se-seven minutes in he-blergh-aven." He takes a swig from his flask. Summer narrows her eyes but Rick just burps placidly, drool dripping down his chin, "Scarves aren't a 'fashion' choice unless you're...unless you're a pretentious fu-eurgh-cktard or a...or a starving, vegan hippie." Summer's fork is frozen halfway to her mouth but Mom and Dad are still embroiled in what seems to be a life or death battle judging by their laser-eyed focus.

"Jeez Summer!" Morty starts, "Were you-"

She cuts him off before he can finish the question. "Shut **_up_** Morty!" She spits out, unnecessarily vicious and Morty, instead of backing off, doubles down, like a dog with a bone who sees a weakness, "So I guess that means you had _fun_ at Fiona's..." He insinuates.

"How would _you_ even know who Fiona is? You barely even _go_ to Herpson." Summer snaps, dismissive.

"Nancy said-"  
"Oh, of course!" Summer throws her hands up in consternation. Morty's face morphs into a nasty expression before he says loudly, "She says...she says you were-"

"Nancy is a lying _bitch_ who doesn't know _anything_ about _anyone_!" Summer growls, hands slamming on the table, breathing heavily at her outburst.

" _Kids_!" Beth calls out.

"Language." Jerry admonishes, the argument with his wife on pause.

"Wow, Summer," Rick chortles, "You should…you should visit this pu-eurgh-rge planet-"

Summer stands abruptly, her chair scraping ear shatteringly loud over the Formica and Beth hurriedly offers, "You can take the car with Morty today."

"If we had another car..." Jerry starts, undeterred by their brief interruption, the prospect of winning the argument too strong.

Summer fumes the whole way there.

* * *

Lunch is an exercise in restraint.

If she isn't aggressively ignoring Maria and her clique then she's fielding questions from Jen, Mischa _and_ Ethel on the nature of her disappearance the other night. Ethan had given her a ride home in the morning but Summer would rather have a sit down dinner with Lucius than reveal _that i_ nformation. If even MIA _Morty_ had managed to hear about her and Ethan [we're going to **_ruin_** Nancy] then she's not saying a word about it. Let people speculate but the truth is hers. ["Of _course_ you can trust _Ethan_ not to tell," the voice comments sarcastically] Summer nervously twitches but it's not his lunch period so she won't find him in this crowd.

"C'mon, Summer...you went awol after Toby brought in more kegs and no one could find Ethan either." Ethel gripes, as Mischa picks up her phone and Jen waggles her eyebrows, making amorous advances towards her can of pop before taking an exaggerated, slurpy, lip-smacking sip.

"Look! I texted you _thirty_ times and you never answered!" Mischa accuses, sticking her phone in Summer's face.

"So irresponsible..." Ethel admonishes, shaking her head sadly. Jen wraps an arm around Ethel's shoulders and solemnly extols, "We didn't raise her like this." Ethel leans into Jen, her face contorted into what Summer can only assume is her approximation of pious disappointment so she cranes around Mischa's phone to say, "Are you trying to take a shit or hold it in, Eth?" A beat of silence falls, broken by Jen's cackles. Ethel shrugs off the arm around her, saying, "Like you look any better!"

Meanwhile Summer is attempting to get the phone away from her face by ultimately wrestling Mischa until the pair of them are nearly flailing at each other.

"Thirty texts!"

"Get off!"

"THIRTY texts!"

"Stop it!"

"No reply!"

"Come on!"

"You left me on read!"

"Fucking get-ow!"

"On READ!"

"I was _busy_!"

"Doing what?" three voices chorus in near perfect unison.

"Or who?" Jen insinuates, tone dripping with implication. Summer groans and throws her head back in frustration, catching sight of Maria laughing like a tampon commercial with Tammy Guetermann in her peripheral vision. She straightens and her view is blocked by a muscular set of shoulders topped with a blond head: Toby Matthews.

"Ohmygod. She's got it _bad_." Mischa says, eyes wide and tone incredulous.

"He was _that_ good, huh?" Jen says, sly, eagerly nudging Ethel.

"Well I hope you know what you're doing." Ethel sniffs, sanctimonious, and shifts away from Jen's wagging elbow.

"How bad can you mess up doing it?" Mischa scoffs, eyes alight with mirth.

"Sam said she dated this guy once. Zero body hair. But he glued wig hair to the sha-" Jen starts, offhanded, focused on examining her nails with faux concentration.

"Nothing! Happened!" Summer interrupts in utter exasperation ["Liar, liar," the voice singsongs] and snatches her crumb littered tray off the table in a huff just in time for the bell to ring. She's serenaded to the trash can to the dulcet tones of Mischa, Ethel and Jen with their rendition of Saved by the Bell, featuring We Won't Forget, and it's prodigious accompaniment followed by We Will Get Answers and the ever ominous finale of We Know Your Secrets And Where You Live.

* * *

Summer stomps to the changing rooms for fourth period P.E. and feels like she's stepped through one of Rick's portals into a crime noir dimension where high schools are even more life-threatening then they already are.

There are people not in her class milling around the girls' locker room. The door has been stoppered open and more people spill through it. Summer heads toward it and someone says in panicked, hushed tones, "Did anyone get a teacher?" A boy just squeezing out of the door amid those going in calls out, "Dude! She's totally in there!" Even as a creeping sense of unease stiffens Summer's back, she joins the flow of bodies crossing the threshold to go inside.

The room is dark, one panel of flickering fluorescent light casting everything in a harsh relief of gothic chiaroscuro. A bevy of camera phone lights are concentrated in and around a dense crowd gathered by the shower stalls. Summer grips her gym bag tighter with both hands and moves toward the apex of the commotion. Through a forest of legs she sees the unmistakable shape of a person lain prone on the tiled floor. The crush of too many bodies is superseded by the slightly sour antiseptic scent of chemical cleaners applied with careless inconsistency. Summer feels the bile rising in the back of her throat and swallows convulsively.

"Gnarly right?" A short boy with inky spiked hair and nail polish says, bringing up his phone. "Bro got in here before the crowd showed up. Get a load of these."

Summer can't help but take in the parchment pale glassy eyed face of Mrs. Duplassis haloed by straggles of curls matted in coagulated blood. [innocent blood seeping through pavement cracks] The pristine peter pan collar of her dress is stained a beer tinted brown.

Summer can't look away, can't stop herself from cataloguing down to the detailed minutiae of each still image. She can see the pores of Mrs. Duplassis's nose, the hairy mole at the edge of her earlobe and the sagging wrinkles of her double chin. Almost completely covered by hair is the nearly indiscernible impression of two puncture wounds, an inch and half apart. [slicing, dicing, human flesh cut through like butter] Summer squints and moves to zoom in on the photo when an argument breaks out. The phone is abruptly snatched from her reaching fingertips by its owner in order to film the verbal confrontation which is undoubtedly escalating into a physical altercation.

"My blog is getting so many hits after I post this!" Ink haired owner shouts as he struggles against the reacting wave of people with vastly differing directional intents. Summer is buffeted against the wall by several bodies moving to get closer to the action, with their camera phones out, lights flashing and several more pushing for the exit. [a mess of spotlights and warning sirens surrounding her as the cavalry marched in]

She catches glimpses of Mrs. Duplassis amidst the chaos, her eye drawn to the corpse like metal shavings to a super-magnet.

She's shoulder to shoulder with blog boy, against a wave of people when deep throated shouts reverberate from the entrance,

"Everyone come out with your hands up!" {Step out of the vehicle!}

There is a mad din of scrambling that builds to near cacophonous proportions before a series of deafening cracks permeate the air, soundwaves so loud the tiles seem to rattle in their grouted beds. The world tilts on its axis. The boom sets her teeth on edge. There is the tinny sound of panic coming through like feedback on a broken subwoofer and they are forcibly removed from the girl's locker room by the buoyant propulsion of a crowd under control.

There are visibly armed guards stationed at all the exits with bulletproof bomb squad uniforms corralling them all into a line up where they are efficiently processed. A couple of matronly officers conduct pat-downs like they're about to board a plane. Their school's assigned officer is confiscating all possible weapons generated, cell-phones included. Coach Feratu is taking down everyone in attendance on a clipboard, Tammy Guiterman at his side with a copy of the yearbook in her hands.

The sanctimonious girl from the locker room who had instigated a fight before the swat team pulled up is now screaming about her rights, her words spurring a corresponding murmur among the students in her vicinity.

She is promptly, viciously arrested.

Everyone gives up their electronics without a word of protest thereafter. Even blog boy, whom Coach Feratu marks down after a prolonged page flipping from Tammy, deposits his phone with only a mulish expression on his face.

"You are to report to study hall for the remainder of the period." Coach Feratu tells her like an automated message on an answering machine after she tucks her i.d. back into her significantly lighter gym bag. His preternaturally sharp canines gleam under the beams of unfiltered light and Summer is frozen until blog boy, ahead of her, trips and sends the box of confiscated items flying. Coach Feratu's expression sharpens, displeasure clear in his contorting features but all Summer can focus on is his gaping maw, flanked by fangs that flash with each mouthing movement of speech. {pincers clicking predatorily as cameras flash-}

Summer steps around the crouched uniformed figures collecting the scattered contraband and crashes into inky haired blog boy as he is pulled up from his sprawled position by Coach Feratu's skeletal taloned fingers.

Summer catches a glimpse of him escorted back to the end of the search and seizure queue just before the gym door clamours closed behind her. En route to study hall, in the dead empty silent hallway, Mrs. O'Neill's voice projects with canny distortion over the P.A:

"Students and teachers, this is a formal announcement marking the end of a successful lockdown drill. I would just like to extend a huge thank you to the emergency response teams participation in our practice lockdown procedure. They kept us safe today and will keep us safe... {Keep Summer safe...circles endlessly in a sickening ouroborotic mantra]...

Summer bangs through the swing door of the toilets with bruising force, her bag swinging haphazardly on one arm. She skids to a stop and bends double over the trash can in the corner, splashing partially digested lunch against crumpled paper towels. The texture of congealed, masticated food sticking to the back of her throat and the sour stench of stomach juices dripping down her chin has her involuntarily retching, abdomen convulsing with each gagging spasm of revulsion. She comes up for air, staggering to the sinks, eyes streaming with tears, head pounding with pressure and nose clogged up with mucus. She cleans herself up, limbs shaky but consciousness as blessedly silent as her achingly empty stomach.

Summer swipes her gym bag up and startles at the corresponding clatter, shifting stiffened joints to discover a cell phone lying on the worn linoleum. She reaches down cautiously to pick up a phone that is not hers. The home screen lights up with a picture of the inky haired blog boy from the locker room, an elderly man in a wheelchair beside him their faces beaming in mirth, clearly a candid shot. She doesn't let herself think that any of the bitterness she's experiencing is anything but residual heartburn brought on by her recent nausea.

Summer jumps when someone opens the door, instinctively hiding the phone within the folds on her bag as a gorgeous redhead with a spikey bob walks in, another equally stunning brunette following her. The redhead is in the midst of complaining about something when she catches sight of Summer and her bag.

"Oh, were you in the gym?" she asks and brunette's focus snaps to Summer as well.

"Yeah." Summer says, clipped and nonchalant, moving for the door.

"Is it true what they're saying?" redhead asks, eyes wide and Summer can't help but scoff.  
"Every word," she replies, unmistakably sarcastic.

"Bitch." Summer catches as she leaves, a squeal of "Oh my god! Trish!" cut off by the heavy door falling shut at her back.

She slips into study hall and slides into a seat right behind Mischa who makes strangled sounds until Summer slips her the stranger's phone. She gets a note in return: " _Why do you have Matt Mueler's phone_?"

Summer forgoes an answer in favour of goading: _"Can you hack it?"_

Mischa actually turns around to glare at Summer only to be met with the anciently offensive duck face that has her snorting. She slaps a hand over her mouth and ducks back to face the laptop on her desk.

One of the few things they don't know by the end of the period is whether Matthew Adrian Mueler is still in the gymnasium getting searched. All it takes is one look at " _Matt Mueler's Surveillance and Secrecy. A weekly podcast for those of a discerning disposition and questioning..._ " on Mischa's laptop for Summer to desperately plead, "I will _pay_ you to give it back to him, Meesh. _Please_."

Mischa grins ominously, eyes gleaming and Summer heaves a gusty sigh before stating in a dull voice, "Name your price."

* * *

She drives home gripping the steering wheel as though welded to it, knuckles and joints starburst bright from the pressure, intermittently illuminated by the aged yellow light of the street-lamps.

She'd waited for Morty by the front doors until the only people left were over achievers, under performers and the school board required staff necessary to monitor them without legal ramifications. She wanders down the hallways, wishing she had her phone so she could responsibly ditch Morty. [he's your brother and you can't l _eave_ him all **alone** -]

Nancy primly informs her, "He was signed out by..." she clacks a bit on the pre-Cambrian era keyboard, "...his grandfather...in second period-"

"Thanks." Summer butts in tersely, halfway through a pivot to leave when Nancy calls,

"You sure are having fun with Ethan." The barest hint of galling question in her tone and Summer freezes, teeth creaking as they grind against one another. "Maria never looked so... _rough_..." she trails off suggestively and Summer cracks her jaw, prepared for action, when Mrs. O'Neill's voice crackles over the speakerphone at Nancy's elbow.

Summer books it, breathing inexplicably fast for doing nothing but walking to the attendance office. Until she's running out the door and down the street, scarf streaming behind her. She knows only the burn in her lungs and the pounding rhythmic chorus of her steps, breath and heart drowning out all thought. She ignores the ache of her muscles and the stress of her joints. She ignores the weakness of her body and the heaviness of her will. She runs until she can barely walk, relishing the wind on her skin, the sun warming her face and collapses on cool mown grass, galloping heart still heaving her chest for air.

Summer closes her eyes and breathes.

By the time she's made it back to the school parking lot, dusk has fallen and the lot is empty of all but a straggling few vehicles. She's lost her scarf in the race against time and endurance and avoids looking too closely at her reflection in the car window before getting in. She knows she looks a mess by the time her ass hits the driver's seat, all the carefully applied subterfuge in the morning completely worn away. Her hair alone remains in its band; a sweaty, windswept semblance of sanity that's only contributing to the headache pounding its own steady rhythm beneath her temples. She lets it down with a sigh of relief, eyes closing briefly as she turns the key, the engine rumbling. Summer only really clocks the time as she drives home, gripping the steering wheel as though welded to it, knuckles and joints starburst bright from the pressure.

* * *

She doesn't feel anything but hollow as she slips through a dead silent house. Even the intergalactic cable is off. [ ** _See_**. No one really cares. No one would _really_ care if you just don't ever come back-] She grabs a bottle of sports drink out of the cupboard and makes her way upstairs, focused on each shuffling step. Her neck dips, conceding to gravity compounded by fatigue and her hair falls with it, simulating a vague impersonation of tunnel vision. She doesn't notice the spiky haired silhouette emerging from the sofa, tracking her slow progress with his shifting profile amid the shadows. As pipes creak with the rush of water, the fridge bulb illuminates the pristine lab coat of Rick Sanchez as he grabs a beer and cracks it open to take a pensive gulp.


	3. Opus to the Grieving: Summer in Relapse

Summary: Read between the lines. Draw your own conclusions. Summer and some subterfuge and a bit of reprieve. Epistolary experiment.  
Disclaimer: I do not own Rick and Morty. I do not profit from this work. This is un-betaed. Read at your own risk. TW: non-graphic mentions of death.

* * *

[Fri. 11:41 pm | **Text** ]  
Meesh: Tomorrow. 10 am. 123 Cardammon Drive.

* * *

 **THIS SATURDAY 10 AM LIVE  
** Weekly Podcast - _Death at Herpson High-_ Featuring special guest: Summer Smith

* * *

 **CC** :

Matt: Okay! Now for our **Moonwalking** portion of the podcast where I invite a special guest to discuss topical news and relevant conspiracy theories for our closing segment.

*theme music*

Summer: [indistinct] Can you just get a move on? *tapping*

Matt: Right! Um, okay so here with us today is Harry Herpson High School sophomore Summer Smith who was a witness at the scene of the crime in the suspected homicide of Mrs. Duplassis. How's it going Summer? *clatter*

Summer: Great.

Matt: Erm…okay…uh, yeah. *shuffling* So, uh, you were there when they discovered the body…uh… of Mrs. Duplassis?

Summer: Yeah.

*pause*

Matt: …Oh! Um, actually, I owe you big time-ahem, uh, I mean-I want to say a huge thank you to you, uh, to Summer, for rescuing my phone and saving the evidence. I took a ton of pictures and video that day in the changing room and will be posting it to the blog: so check that out!...

Oh, right! Um, yeah, so thanks Summer.

Summer: Yeah, okay.

Matt: Cool. So…uh…why don't we…uh, start with what happened?

Summer: Um, gym got cancelled for the day cuz they found a dead English teacher in the girl's change rooms?

Matt: Well, yeah, um, I kinda already said that….

Summer: Okay, great. So I can go then?

Matt: NO! No…I mean uh, I have a few more questions.

*pause*

Summer: Are you going to ask them?

Matt: Yeah! Jesus…I mean, uh, right, so uh, can you tell us what you were doing on that day when Mrs. Duplassis was found?

Summer: What is this, a police investigation? It was Monday, I was at school.

Matt: Right. So, um, what were you doing at school?

Summer: Going to class, dumbass.

Matt: Okay! Well we are a podcast so there is no swearing, I thought I mentioned that when you got here but…

Summer: So I can't say dumbass?

Matt: No. So, uh,

Summer: What about dipshit?

Matt: No! Okay…

Summer: Not even *bleep*

Matt: Summer!

Summer: [incoherent] *background noise*

Matt: Right. Okay. So, uh, you-uhm… it was just a regular Monday and you had P.E. so you went down to the gym, what did you see?

Summer: I saw a huge crowd outside the girl's change rooms.

Matt: Can you tell us what was going on?

Summer: There were people trying to get in and see…

Matt: The body?

Summer: Yes.

Matt: And did _you_ see the body?

Summer: Yes.

Matt: Can you describe what you saw?

Summer:…You were there too! What did _you_ see?

Matt: I saw a relatively unharmed woman, with blood in her hair but bloodless elsewhere. Do you agree?

Summer: [inaudible]

Matt: …Sorry, I … uh… didn't hear that. Can you repeat that?

Summer: _Yes_.

Matt: Okay…uh-actually! It's thanks to Summer that we actually have pics of the body and I think Summer deserves to see what she saved.

Summer: You _really_ don't have to-

Matt: Here you are Summer. I've brought up the pics from my phone and we're right now looking at the body of Mrs. Duplassis. Can you just confirm for the listeners if how I described her was accurate?

Summer: Yes.

Matt: You…uh…you okay Summer? You look a little-

Summer: I'm fine!

Matt: Okay…okay, um….

Summer: Wait a second…can you zoom in there?

Matt: Yeah, yeah, sure…

Summer: Do you see it?

Matt: Oh my god…

Summer: Those two needle marks-

Matt: It was a vampire!

Summer: What.

Matt: Look…it all adds up: no blood in the body, only in the hair and collar, puncture wounds exactly canine length apart…it _has_ to be a vampire!

Summer: You're nuts! Vampires don't exist. Besides, you should turn this into the police. They should know the killer is-

Matt: All those cell phones they confiscated when the police arrived? They stripped them of any footage of the body or change rooms! They don't want us to know the truth!

Summer: Wait. They wiped everyone's phone?

Matt: _Yes_. And that's why this evidence is so important! No one else has it and the police released an official statement that only said she "had experienced health problems prior to her passing". Vagina doesn't want it out there because it'll probably cut funding and the police don't want to look incompetent.

Summer: Well…that's not right, either but-

Matt: Because they don't want the public to know about the terrifying beasts and supernatural creatures that are in our midst and preying on the innocent! That safety is an illusion and the government only enforces and rewards ignorance and groupthink! There is a vampire stalking the halls of Herpson High! This is Matt Mueler here telling you to-

Summer: _Vampires aren't real_!

Matt: -stay safe and watch your back…

* * *

[Sat. 12:06 am | **Text** ]  
Summer: You owe ME now. That was a fucking nightmare.  
Meesh: **Violin emoji**

* * *

 **The Herpson Post Obituaries** :

Mrs. Duplassis, a mother of two young girls, a wife to a grieving husband and the daughter to heart-broken parents, Annabelle Ophelia Duplassis was a beacon in the community, spear-heading local literacy campaigns and the chairman of Herpson High's fundraising committee. Her last campaign raised more than five thousand dollars for the Herpson Science Department to purchase new lab equipment. Anna has lived a bright, fulfilling and enriching life and always sought to improve the lives of those around her, bringing them so much joy and happiness. She will be dearly missed by all.

The Duplassis and O'Grainger families wish to extend their deepest gratitude for the Herpson community in this time of mourning and would like offer an open invitation to the students and community to join them for a small memorial service at St. Andrew's Chapel this Saturday between 1pm and 3pm.

* * *

 **Channel 7 Action News 8pm** :

 ** _AMBER ALERT_** : 17 year old Madison Sinclair missing since Friday

Last seen wearing a white tank top, blue jeans and heels.

Madison is 5'7, blonde hair, blue eyes

Please call 1-800-888-8888 if you have any information

* * *

 **The Herpson Gazette** :

 ** _Missing Madison Found Dead_**

High school senior, Madison Rose Sinclair, reported missing late Friday evening, was found dead at the bottom of Cliff's Point in Sandy Hill Parks and Conservation Trail early Monday morning by park ranger Darryl Stinton. Herpson County Sheriff's department issued an amber alert for the teenager early Saturday afternoon on local and regional channels. When asked the alert wasn't issued sooner, Herpson County Sheriff's Department Constable, Anthony Coulders said, "We were following the procedure set in place when incidents of this nature occur. There is a 24 hour waiting period for a minor over the age of twelve before an amber alert over state lines can be issued."

The Parks and Recreation Department released a statement warning hikers and nature enthusiasts to follow proper safety practices when out on the trails and cautioned park goers from wandering off the designated hiking paths. When questioned further, Coulders revealed that initial search attempts and organized investigation was focused close to home based on statistical data in disappearance cases. Madison's parents had no statement beyond a request for privacy made by their legal representative.

Madison was in her last year of high school at Herpson High School located in the Lake District where their students and staff recently suffered another loss. One of their faculty…

* * *

 **Instagram** :

MadisonSinclair

[posted Thursday 10:46 p.m.]

[pictured Madison Sinclair in her bedroom, her designer-brand luggage displayed on the bed behind her.]

Caption: weekend shopping spree with my girls. don't tell dad. shhhh emoji crown emoji #shopaholic #blessed #fashionforever #namebrandslut

* * *

 **The Herpson Post Obituaries** :

Passed away before her time on Saturday at 17 years of age.  
Madison will be sadly missed by her loving parents, Diane and David; her beloved sister Trixie; cherished grandparents, Ken and Catherine Sincliar of Cambridge, Doug and Eileen Oliver of Grey County. She will be forever remembered by her many aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.

Madison was born in Grey County and was attending Harry Herpson High School. Among her many interests were music, horseback riding and fashion design. She made and organized many fashion shows in support of charitable causes and had just been accepted to college for a bachelor's program in textiles and design.

Friends are invited to share their memories of Madison with her family during visitation at the Bertrand & Ernest Family Funeral Home, 133 Elmcrest Boulevard...

* * *

 **Discord** :

[forward/cc 'Maximumeffort'Meesh: My source snuck me some pics of the scene. Sinclair def wasn't dressed for hiking. No blood too. Suspicious... *thinking emoji* See the pics?

Sum1: I am NOT doing another podcast with that dumbass. and do NOT send me those pics.

Meesh: she was in _your_ gym class.

Sum1 ' _is typing_ '

Meesh: she was last seen going to your gym class.

Sum1: You owe me now, remember?

Meesh: and i'll owe you double. you knew her right?

Sum1: Fine. What do I do?

* * *

 **Text** :

Summer: Hey. I need your help for Callum's presentation.

Nancy: Sure! No problemo! Just email me and I'll give it a looksie!

Summer: My laptops busted but I have a hard copy. *prayer hands emoji* I'm at the Coffee Bean with Ethan. Just come?

Nancy: I'm at the attendance office. My shift ends in an hour.

Summer: Ethan's my ride and he's leaving in 30.

Nancy: I can't leave the desk unattended...

Nancy: [...typing...]

Summer: Mischa says she can watch. Cool?

Nancy: That's great!

Summer: Cool. Mischa's almost there.

Nancy: Gotcha. See you soon! Btw Morty's been absent a while. Is he okay?

Summer: Cool. See ya!

* * *

 **Video Footage** :

Madison Sinclair exits the front entrance of Herpson High, engrossed in her phone. Her handbag and gym bag float in front of her, suspended in the air by nothing, moving as though carried by an invisible person.

* * *

 **Discord** :

Maximumeffort: This is AMAZING! Where did you get it?

Meesh: school servers. are you going to do anything with it?

Maximumeffort: Go public. This is enough evidence to do it. The people need to know! You are unbelievable! Seriously...how did you do it?

Meesh: third party ip, backdoor access. listen. i think this goes deep.

Maximumeffort: Wym?

Meesh: i left the access open to trace the rest of day later. when i went back to check this footage had been erased from record.

Maximumeffort: wtf

Meesh: so can you look after this?

Maximumeffort: Holy Shit!

Meesh: how secure are you?

Maximumeffort: OMG. this is CRAZY

Maximumeffort: I was RIGHT! Someone is trying to hide this!?

Meesh: seriously tho. can you hold onto this footage?

* * *

 **Text** :

Nancy: Ethan is so cute! omg Sum ur so lucky!

* * *

 **Receipt** :

Hakim's Computer Emporium  
123 Spacetree Road 221-887-9832

SD Card $5.00

Drive $50.00

Subtotal $55.00  
Sales Tax ...

* * *

 **Text** :

Nancy: How are you and Ethan doing?

* * *

schools/harryherpsonhighschool/pages

 ** _Announcement:_**

Mrs. Antoine, our head of Drama, has taken an indefinite leave of absence for personal reasons and would like to thank all the faculty and students for their understanding in her abrupt departure. We wish her all the best. Mrs. Antoine facilitated many productions put on by the drama department in her years at Herpson, enabling out students to experience the Arts that ...

* * *

 **The Science of Flight Society** :

 ** _In Memoriam:_**

In loving memory of Annabella Antoine  
(May 1981- October 2018)

* * *

 **Channel 7 Action News 8pm** :

 ** _AMBER ALERT_** : 14 year old Sharon Reizhingher missing since Tuesday

Last seen wearing...

* * *

 **Whatsapp** :

Jen: Did you hear?

Ethy: Sharon R from Mathletes right?

Sums: Wth

Jen: She's missing!

Ethy: i don't think i can handle another funeral.

Jen: ikr. hope they find her.

Ethy: i didn't know madison but that was tragic. her sister... *sobbing emoji*

Sums: yeah dude. that was rough.

Ethy: and Sharon's only a freshman

Jen: omg isn't she in morty's class?

* * *

 **Discord** :

Sum1: I know you're investigating this.

Meesh: i don't know what you're talking about. matt's the one with the podcast investigating this.

Sum1: I want in.

Meesh: this counts as one.

Sum1: *middle-finger emoji*

Meesh: *violin emoji*


	4. Sonata for Doubt in PE Major

Summary: A whole load of mental gymnastics.

A/N: I do not own Rick and Morty. I make no profit from this work. This is unbetaed.  
Read at your own risk. Trigger warning-sexual harassment/assault.

* * *

It's not Ethel's fault that her parents are a little different, just like it's not Mischa's fault that she's a great hacker or Jen's fault that she's the life of the party or Morty's fault that he's got a stutter or Summer's fault that her family's maybe more than a little fucked up.

Summer knows for a fact that there are worse things then being dead or afraid. That when you're out of control and powerless, that's the most paralyzing, frightening feeling in the world.

* * *

Matt: And now we've come to the **Moonwalking** portion of the podcast. I'd like to welcome our special guest this week. Toby.

Toby: Hey, yeah, sup dude?

Matt: It's all good man. No, but seriously, thanks for coming on.

Toby: Yeah, no problem bro.

Matt: So, uh, I asked you to come on the podcast cuz of Madison Sinclair.

Toby: Yeah.

Matt: For our listeners, Madison Sinclair was a senior at Harry Herpson High School, the same school where Annabelle Duplassiss was found dead. Madison went missing on Friday and was found dead at Sandy Hill trail on Sunday. The police are ruling it as a hiking accident but Toby was actually there that day, when she was found and he has a different story.

So...uh, Toby, can you tell us about the day when Madison was found?

Toby: Oh, uh, yeah bro. It was totally gnarly. She was ,like, at the bottom of this, like, ditch. And, like, the police were all fighting over how to get her out.

Matt: Okay Toby...ummm...what were you doing at Sandy Hills? Were you part of the search and rescue?

Toby: Oh, yeah, man...podcast, right?

Matt: Yeah, thanks, man [laughs]

Toby: [laughs] Okay, okay. So, I uh, work in the Parks department. I'm part of the maintenance and patrol staff. So...like if someone calls to say, like, I dunno, they found a dead animal or...like garbage or whatever, they send us out to make sure it's not, like, a prank or something. Only, like, not too many people call, so like, the rest of the time we just drive around to make sure stuff is like, still working, y'know?

Matt: Right. So you know the area pretty well?

Toby: Well, yeah. I've only been patrolling for like, a year. Man...it's so boring...sometimes we just, like, take a couple of forties or smoke-

Matt: Okay! Toby! I gotcha...it's usually quiet.

Toby: Yeah, but not Sunday. Cuz of Madison and everything.

Matt: They were looking for her?

Toby: Nah...only reason I knew she was missing was cuz Maria was bitching about how she bought these tickets to some show and flaked. Girl shit, y'know?

Matt: Yeah, right...so...

Toby: Yeah...so I was all like...babe just call her. Maybe you can pick up the tickets?

And she was all like, I can't...cuz her parents don't know right? And I'm like, no babe, call _Madison_ and she's like, I _can't._ She's missing. And I'm like, oh shit. Girls, man...crazy shit, I'm telling you.

Matt: So this is when you're out on patrol?

Toby: Yeah man...like I said, it's boring as shit.

Matt: Were you alone?

Toby: Nah, they don't let us do it alone anymore.

Matt: How does that work? Does someone stay in the car or...

Toby: Yeah, man...someone's gotta watch it. And it's, like...way better to have backup if you gotta take someone in, right?

Matt: So...you were the one to get out of the car...?

Toby: Oh, yeah! So, like, we got a call from some hikers complaining that someone had dumped all this trash by Turner point. And we're kinda bummed cuz the playoffs were on and we're gonna miss the last quarter. Bro...did you see Ledeski? Dude, Ledeski was on fire!

Matt: Toby...man...

Toby: Oh yeah, my bad. Kay, so like we're driving down to Turner and I'm just joshin' with Darryl cuz the group who called are, like, tight-asses. They call in, like every week about _something,_ y'know? But, like, cuz they call we gotta to log it and it goes in the report so we _have_ to check it out. Anyways, we get down there and I've got this bet with Dare that it's probably like a plastic bag of something cuz last time they called about a coffee cup and some Micky D's.

Matt: Was it a plastic bag?

Toby: Dude...it was a whole ass suitcase of all this fancy girl shit like everywhere...just like all the way down the ravine. So I call Dare, I'm like, Yo! Someone's dumpin! Cuz like that's a fine, right? And Darryl's all like, told ya they was serious this time. ... And...uh...

Matt: When did you notice Madison?

Toby: Yeah...I...uh...went down to pick up this...uh...really nice skirt...cuz Maria loves that shit and ... uh...I tripped going back up...and it started this like...avalanche of stuff and uh...when it hit the bottom...it like...hit this other stuff that was there...and uh...yeah...then I could see Madison.

Matt: Toby...dude...I'm so sorry.

Toby: ...uh...nah man...it's cool. But it's just like, I _knew_ her right? Only cuz of Maria but still. We used to _hang_.

Matt: Man...yeah...I feel ya. That sounds rough, finding her and everything.

Toby: ...yeah...I think I was yelling a lot cuz Darryl came down, like, running.

Matt: What did Darryl do?

Toby: Darryl's solid man. He's way older and he's been doing this for like ages. He had all that shit on lock. So he like gets down there and I'm like, Darryl man, there's a body and he's like all calm and shit...like yeah let's go check it out. And he goes closer and I'm following him like some puss-

Matt: Oh-uh-Toby...

Toby: What? Oh, yeah. Uh...like a tool. And uh, yeah. It was definitely Madison.

Matt: What happened next?

Toby: Well, Darryl had to climb back up to call it in on the radio or whatever cuz he knows the codes. And I... uh, stayed to makes sure nothing happened to the body...to..uh...Madison and then Darryl came down with all the tape and shit, told me to go back up and set a barricade and wait for the police.

Matt: I know this sucks Toby, but could you tell me more about Madison?

Toby: Oh...well, uh...Maria was the one who was friends with Madison, so, uh...

Matt: No-uh, I mean, that night when you found her. Did she look like she'd been in an accident?

Toby: ummm...yeah...well, I mean it was weird. Darryl was saying later that, like, she was really clean, y'know? Like all her stuff was everywhere like she fell but, like, she was all done up, y'know?

Matt: Done up how?

Toby: Like she was going clubbing. And like, Darryl said that it didn't even look like she fell, too. Like no dirt, no blood, no bruises or nothing. Like... like, someone put her there or something.

Matt: [pause] So you're-

Toby: Man, I dunno. If the police say it's an accident then... whatever but like...yeah.

Matt: Yeah, it's not looking too good for the police right now. Especially when we release the footage we've obtained of Madison prior to her disappearance which suggests outside involvement...

* * *

Summer's drawn the short straw for ripping the band-aid off the hand grenade that is an oblivious Jen and ignorant Ethel. They _hate_ being out of the loop. So bright Monday morning-or more of a dowdy, grey Monday lunch-and Summer's hunkered down on a well-worn and lovingly graffitied cafeteria table, braced for the explosion that is going about as well as expected; Mischa having callously abandoned her to her fate.

"...and were you only going to tell us when, oh, I dunno, you **died** finding this maniac?!"

Summer closes her eyes as Ethel reaches a particularly shrill decibel level and weathers out the storm.

"...which, yes, I know: how are you even supposed to tell us when you're dead? Huh?"

Summer fights the urge to pinch her nose or rub her temple, secure in the knowledge such an action would only exacerbate the current tirade.

"And oh! So then I guess you weren't thinking that we would just...find out from someone else or-or-I dunno...the _news_! That you were dead!"

Summer only blinks as Ethel pants after that marathon sprint of a rant and thinks forcefully about how much she _usually_ likes Ethel before she says in her best approximation of contrition, "Sorry Eth."

"Not cool, Summer." Jen condemns solemnly, arms crossed and expression shuttered. There's an awkward beat before Summer jumps in with a weak echo, "I'm sorry, guys. _Honestly_. I just didn't think about it."

Ethel's looking at her with laser-eyed focus, like a predator in a stare-down with a threat before she visibly deflates and sighs. "It's not about that, Summer," she mutters and slumps back in her seat.

Jen nods meaningfully. "Yeah, Sum. We're ride or die." There's not a hint of humour about her as she says it.

Ethel starts up, head turning in agitation to Jen, "I _just_ gave a whole speech about how we're _not dying_ and you go and say-"

"Oh my _god,_ Ethel!" Jen groans, uncrossing her arms to throw them up in the air in exasperation. "You know what I mean!" she moans, accusatory.

Summer, her lips upturned ever so slightly takes the initiative to step in. "So...Meesh is already working with someone on this..."

She has Ethel and Jen's full attention, the bickering waylaid by this teasing revelation.

"What do you mean she's ' _working_ ' with someone'?" Ethel starts, air quotes mimed with viciousness, and Summer can see her building up to another seminar on loyalty and truth. Jen just shoots out a sharp, succinct, colourless and hard, "Who?"

Summer takes a breath and cannot stop herself from pre-emptive damage control, "You guys have to understand that it was all, like, _really_ in the moment-"

" _Who_." Ethel demands and Summer breaks off immediately. She takes a breath and says, quiet, diminutive, an offering on a broken platter, "Matt Mueller."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!"

"No way."

"Wait a minute, is that why she's not here..."

" _No._ _ **Way**_."

* * *

They're glued at the hip all the way to Summer's locker as she grabs her bag for fourth period gym and all the way to the locker rooms [where you found the dead body last time... ready for more deadly surprises?]. Summer's hard-pressed not to let the exasperation of a pseudo-interrogation where she doesn't have nearly enough answers get the better of her and subsume the measly little bit of her that isn't an utter dick.

"I really don't know." She tries not to grit out, her gym bag desperately clung to with one hand wrapping frustration-laden fingers into an iron grip that is sure to leave an imprint on the old nylon straps.

"Well, what we _do_ know is that people are dropping like flies lately." Ethel says tone tight but comportment sage, an elbow linked through Summer's as she scrolls through her phone.

"It's getting a bit Hunger Games." Jen nods, jostling Summer's other shoulder as she reapplies her lipstick, reflective holographic case acting as a mirror. "Tell me what you _do_ know, Katniss."

Summer sighs. "I don't know anything. Mischa's the one who thinks that-"

"Ugh... _don't_ say it." Ethel snaps, clicking her phone off and slipping it into her bag.

Jen's smacking her newly made-up lips as she lobs an offhand, "Are you seriously telling her to shut up after you gave a whole 'four score and seven years ago' goddamn state of union back there and-"

"Yes and **you** can shut up." Ethel responds primly.

"Well, if I'm shutting these luscious berry lips then you better swallow that-"

" _Yes._ Okay. I'm shutting up, too."

They've reached the doors of the gym and Summer has a rapt audience of two hanging off both arms. She's cornered and she doesn't have the energy to put up a façade so she lists off the facts as she knows them, [you really do _not_ believe that there is a **vampire** stalking the halls of Herpson...you would have to be a _complete_ idiot-]

"I did the podcast with Matt last Saturday thanks to Mischa. And he started talking about how the killer is probably a vampire because the body didn't...have any blood." Summer peters out and Ethel, thankfully, takes the wheel.

"What do you mean, thanks to Mischa?"

"It's complicated. You have to ask her." Summer says stiffly, apologetic, the words slow but firm. [ **Coward**. You're not _protecting_ Mischa. You just don't want to explain how you found _her_ in that locker room and noticed all the _blood_ and **why** you notice blood-]

"Where _is_ Meesh?" Jen asked, frowning slightly and looks to Ethel whose expression turns even more serious as she responds, "Yeah, where _is_ she?"

They both look to Summer and she just shrugs and offers, "All I know is that she didn't actually say that the vampire theory was bullshit."

There's a beat of incredulous silence as they digest that and then Jen says, tone scandalized, "She _believes_ him?!"

Ethel's stone cold serious when she asks, "She _seriously_ thinks there's a _vampire_ at high school killing people for food?"

"Was Matt high when you did the podcast?" Jen asks, matching Ethel for sincerity, "because you know if you're high enough you can believe anything. One time I was with Aaron and we had the TV on and I swear to god the-"

"I don't think he was high." Summer interrupts, steamrolling Jen's infamous tangents, eyes narrowed as she tries to recall the details of that morning.

"Are you _sure_?" Jen presses, unperturbed, as Ethel just purses her lips.

"All I know is that he showed me pictures of...Mrs. Duplassiss... and you could see needle marks in her neck..." Summer swallows audibly, "and she was, like, _really really_ white and...um...he said that it had to be a vampire."

"Okaaay..." Jen drawls, tone sceptical, her disbelief apparent.

"And, um, when I talked to Meesh after, she said she was helping Matt. So...I'm not saying that a vampire is off killing and kidnapping people-

"Summer!" The creaking nasal whine of Coach Feratu interrupts her and all three of them jump in response. They must have been so immersed that they hadn't heard him coming. [Who are you trying to convince? You didn't hear him walking or breathing or moving and you're not deaf which means-]

"I'll have to mark you tardy if you're not dressed and ready for class in time." Coach Feratu warns, harsh features drawn even harsher in displeasure and the three of them reluctantly separate, limbs and elbows in their own separate orbits.

"You better answer my texts!" Jen demands as a parting shot and Ethel just locks gazes for a brief moment, her stare is so piercing that Summer almost wants to reassure her that lines of communication are fully permanently open and transparent.

"Right on time," Coach Feratu says, following her through the heavy double doors as she holds one open for him.

* * *

Summer's dismantling the canopy by the track, set up so Coach Feratu could comfortably supervise their run times without aggravating his skin condition. [The evidence is stacking up. Why won't you let yourself believe? Is it because you're _that_ afraid that **Rick** will call you _stupid_ for believing in-] Charlotte, who was supposed to be helping her, had disappeared the second Coach Feratu's flat, flabby ass crossed the threshold of the gym.

"Later, Girl! Owe you!" She'd called, flipping her long blonde hair just _so_. Rearranging it so it sat _just_ right _._ Her boyfriend slung an arm over her shoulder and she wrapped one around his waist as they strolled away, footsteps tapping away in complete unison while Charlotte squealed in delight.

"Bitch." Summer mutters at her retreating back, shoving the sack for the canopy with the toe of her sneaker, expression soured in distaste as several rusted, unused poles roll out with a reverberating clang.

" _Hey_!" Summer looks up and at the quivering jowls of Assistant Coach Nailer shouting down at her from the bleachers a few feet away. "We treat equipment with respect!" Several heads swivel in her direction and Summer tilts her chin up to meet Nailer's squinty-eyed gaze, jutting out one hip as she shifts her weight. Nailer's eyes narrow further at her nonchalance and he yells, face turning an unattractive blotched red, further reinforcing his uncanny resemblance to a diseased tomato, "I'm watching you, young lady! Get that tarp down or it'll be suicides for you 'til you do!"

Summer sighs and shuffles off to untie the cords keeping the contraption up, leaning over to work the fraying fibres of their stubborn knots. She's cursing life, the universe and everything when her nail breaks in the process and is seriously debating whether or not to [flip off Nailer and get detention] pretend like she's on her period and bail when a shadow falls over her. She cricks her neck and is met with the golden blond halo of Toby's sweat slicked hair, tendrils sticking to his sun-burnished skin, helmet tucked lazily under an armpit.

Summer straightens, her back aching from the bent position, and blows the errant wisps that have escaped the elastic band of her ponytail, out of her eyes and mouth.

"Sup." He says, hint of a fleeting grin at the corners of his bubble-gum pink lips.

"Not much." Summer responds, fingers worrying the newly painful hangnail, eyes drifting to the few remaining cheerleaders trickling off the field.

Toby nods like she's just told him a fascinating piece of ground-breaking research at an industry conference. He steps closer, helmet dropping from elbow to hand, running the other through his hair, leaving it thoroughly disheveled [ _mmm_ , looks just like Ethan's when you-]

"Sup with you." Summer asks, eyes wide, expression blank. [play it _cool_ , **loser** ] Toby grins, self-assured, laconic response falling from his lips like water off a duck's back, "Not much, not much..." He steps even closer and Summer has to crane her neck to meet his eyes, blue as the clear cerulean sky above them.

He leans even closer and says, "You're Summer, right?"

Summer nods, a hesitant smile creeping up her lips. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and looks at him through her eyelashes.

"You know Matt, right?"

Summer stiffens for a moment, her spine straightening and then folds her arms, pressing them against her ribcage as she cautiously replies, "Matt...?"

Toby takes the hint, "Mueller. Matt Mueller. He says he wants to meet up tonight." Summer merely bites her lip, debating the merits of admitting her acquaintance to someone like Toby Matthews. [when did you become such a cutthroat bitch, Sum-Sum?] In the end, Toby Matthews or not, common sense wins out. "Is this a joke or something?" She asks, point-blank, assessing gaze meeting his before she scans the field for any hidden cameras or chortling jocks.

Toby seems taken aback, brow adorably wrinkled in confusion when he stutters, "W-what?"

"Is this a joke." Summer repeats, tone demanding, "If Matt wants to hang so much, why isn't _he_ here asking me?" Summer shifts slightly, jutting her chin out and tapping her foot lightly. [great job, freakazoid. see if he ever talks to you again.]

" _Oh_!" Toby's expression clears and he laughs awkwardly, "Uh, no, no, no! Matt's a bud. I, uh..." Toby looks furtively behind him before saying, "I actually went on his -uh, he has this, uh, podcast and I went on it last week." All the tension falls out of Summer's body and she wants to throw her head back and laugh at the absurdity of _Toby Matthews_ [officially off the market doesn't mean _unofficially_ -] and Matt Mueller being friends. She smiles, relieved as she says, a laugh in her voice nonetheless, "I was on it, too."

"Yeah?" He says, head tilted like an eager golden retriever, enthusiasm just as endearing as their draft-inducing tail-wags, "No way! That's awesome!"

"So...like...where...when...?"

"Okay...uh, so...Matt, right? I gotta give you coordinates-"

"You're kidding!" [He's fucking with you. _Toby Matthews_ giving you the time of day is already a joke-]

"Yeah...not really..." He laughs, eyes sparkling in the sun and Summer sighs.

* * *

Summer slips inside the door to the phys ed. office, the shades on the single, wire-mesh glass window rattling as a basketball hits it with a cacophonous bang. She leans against the door and it clicks shut, slightly muffling the noise of the sophomore girls practicing their layups and drops the packed canopy unceremoniously by her ankles. She's on group chat where Jen is helping her dissect her conversation with Toby in excruciatingly minute detail. She snorts when Jen informs her of the [fortunate for you] supposed fact that hot guys with blue eyes and huge biceps have a propensity for butts way more than boobage.

She's typing a response when there's a sound like a book falling on the floor from a great height and Summer jumps, so startled that she loses her grip on her phone and scrambles to keep from dropping it. [do you think _Jerry_ has money to give you? do you think _Beth_ will be _sober_ enough to give a _shit_ if you-] There is a harsh, rattling cough and Summer clutches her phone to her chest in shock as her head snaps up. Coach Feratu standing in a corner, the shadows from the flickering fluorescent lights turning the crevices of his face skeletal.

"Oh my god, Coach Feratu!" She gasps and he seems to glide forward, segway smooth.

"Summer." Coach Feratu intones, and Summer feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.  
"You have returned." He murmurs, bulbous eyes half-lidded as he scans the bundle of canvas and metal at her feet. Summer _swears_ she sees them flash blood-red for half a second right before he asks, "But where is your partner..." He casts about, looking theatrically behind and around her, "Charlotte?" The name sounds foreign when it trips out of his thin, cracked lips. He over enunciates the t's and lingers over the vowels, lending it a vague, general European flavour.

"Oh, uh. She had to go to class." Summer stammers over the answer, [Liar, liar. You _should_ throw her under the bus for the shit she pulled. reap your hard-earned reward. You _deserve_ it-] "She, uh, she had a quiz." Summer says, widening her eyes, pure-innocence in the slack-jawed expression she forces on her face.

Coach Feratu's nostrils flare at her response, his cheeks hollowing from displeasure, his already gaunt face turning positively skull-like at the motion. "Ah. Yes." He says, entirely devoid of any emotion or intonation, "The quiz." He pauses, zeroing in on Summer who tries to make herself even more innocuous, certain she must look at least partially on her way to a puddle with how relaxed she's forcing her facial muscles to become. "Do you not share a class with Charlotte, Summer?" His eyes flash with a crimson sheen as he hammers the proverbial nail in his coffin of inquiry, crossing his arms in challenge. Summer suppresses the flinch that wants to emerge, her fingers worrying the hangnail to the point that it rips off with a sharp stab as it tears a piece of flesh with it.

"It's a make up quiz. So...like, not everyone has to take it." Summer drawls, as though it is the most self-evident thing in the world, sure to infuse contempt in every syllable to discourage any further probing questions. She can feel the burn of her former hangnail replaced with a wet heat and darts a look down at her hand to see garnet drops of blood welling in her cuticle and dripping down her finger to stain her shirt. Coach Feratu raises his eyebrows, spindly taloned fingers drumming his arm as he sniffs. The fingers freeze as he inhales deeply, blinking lethargically, posture loosening.

"Summer," he whispers, continuing to breathe deeply, his cheeks colouring faintly with a rosy blush pink that does nothing to diminish his cadaverous appearance. He steps closer and closer until he is all but flush against her when he bends down to pick up the packed canopy at her feet. He thrusts it against her chest and she is sandwiched tight between poles and tarpaulin on one side and wooden door on the other, the full weight of Coach Feratu keeping her in place.

"I do believe _this_ belongs in the supply closet and _not_ the floor of the office." He says softly, head low enough that she can feel each heaving exhale on her face. "Perhaps you need an education on putting belongings in their _proper_ place." He licks his cracked, peeling lips, the movement catching Summer's eye. Coach Feratu sees her looking and smiles so Summer can see each gleaming yellow tooth, the canines in particular, look preternaturally long and pointed. The back of Summer's head hits the door. She has nowhere left to go.

She extricates a hand crushed to her chest to grab the canopy and attempts to leave only to find she cannot budge. She grunts from the effort though there is nothing to show for it and her head drops back against the door again in defeat. Coach Feratu is nearly panting now and chuckles hoarsely when Summer slumps against the door.

Coach Feratu's voice drops several octaves and he nearly growls, "Fiesty young lady, aren't you?" And leans in so close he nuzzles her neck with his hooked beak of a nose. "Maybe I should teach you a lesson...ah..." His lips mouth at her pulse point, "...in... _ah_...manners." He groans low in his throat and Summer feels as though she's astral projected outside of her body and is watching this happen to someone else. A stranger, with her face and her hair and her bleeding finger, who is standing stock still in a dingy cupboard of a room, [ _letting_ ] getting hit on by this creep [ _vampire_ ] of a coach. She is paralyzed in absolute disbelief at the situation when Coach Feratu _grinds_ up against her, pressing the canopy so far into her that it _hurts_.

She grimaces in pain, eyes rolling to the ceiling in exasperation and distaste as Coach Feratu begins a muttered stream of filthy profanities that she tunes out automatically. Her gaze is drawn to one of the ceiling tiles in particular, stained with the rust of mildew and balanced precariously on the grid of support beams. A dark blue letter jacket sleeve pokes out, the bright yellow M of the Mathletes emblazoned on its arm. [ _Sharon Reizhinger_ was a Mathlete, wasn't she? Sharon Reizhinger who is _**missing**_ _was_ a Mathlete, wasn't she?]

Summer twists her torso ineffectually as Coach Feratu's cold hand wraps around hers, the bleeding finger throbbing in his tight grip while he purrs, "Hmmm, I can _smell_ how delicious you will _taste_ -" Summer adjusts her stance and knees him in the crotch with vicious force. He doubles over, relinquishing his hold of her hand in favour of protecting his bruised jewels; a wheezing moan falling out of his open mouth and Summer shoves the canopy into his face.

He staggers backwards and Summer grapples with the door handle, her phone grazing the metal as she forces it open and slips out, gasping from the adrenaline rush. A basketball sails past her head, so close it grazes her ear and she shrieks as laughter fills the echoing gymnasium.

* * *

"Get in, dork!" Summer yells out the open window of the station wagon, wedging her cell phone between her thigh and the seat as she starts the car. Morty tosses his backpack onto the floor of the passenger side and falls into the seat with a sigh.

"What took you so long?" Summer gripes, adjusting the rearview mirror and switching the radio to her favourite top 40 station. Morty puts on his seat belt and shrugs, "I-I fell asleep in class."

Summer frowns as they pull out of the parking space, joining the crawling line of cars making for the only exit of the overpacked lot. "No one woke you up?" She asks, half curious as the throbbing bass of the latest hit thrums through the air.

"Oh...uh...I- I dunno. After Sharon, everyone's just kinda...whatever." Morty shrugs, uncharacteristically listless. They usually argue over the radio, the AC, the windows, everything, pretty much. But today, he just leans against the seat and stares out the window at the scenery slowly crawling by as they pull out of the school lot.

"Any news?" Summer asks, checking for oncoming traffic before she turns left.

"No." Morty mumbles, not moving an inch. Summer hums as she makes the turn, her mind turning to the letter jacket falling out of the ceiling tile [and that _fucking_ piece of shit who practically _groped_ you-] and the corn yellow M emblazoned on the sleeve. She'd gone to her next class afterwards, inexcusably late and was only able to avoid disciplinary action as it was her first infarction in that class.

It wasn't until she'd sat down in the car after the last bell rang that she had a chance to check her phone, which had blown up. She'd inadvertently filmed the whole encounter with Coach Feratu with all her fumbling and posted it to the group chat. The angle is terrible and very little is visible after Coach Feratu picks up the canopy. But the sound is crystal clear; the mic even picking up the basketball practice on the other side of the door. Every single thing the bastard had said, besides being creeptastic, does sound eerily vampiric in nature. She'd fired off a series of texts reassuring everyone of her continued existence before she'd caught sight of Morty in the parking lot.

She looks over at him slumped over in the passenger seat [he looked so _sad._ He's your _baby_ _brother_. No one's allowed to make him _sad-_ ], only to find him asleep, his head tipped so far forward, his chin rests on his chest. And she knows that when he wakes up he'll have a wickedly stiff neck. But she doesn't wake him. She does reach over to turn off the radio and his snuffling snores fill the burgeoning silence.

He shouldn't be _this_ tired, she thinks. He should be able to make it through the day, she thinks. He doesn't do sports or have p.e. or any other strenuous extracurricular activity. [-...Other _than_...] Yes, other than Grandpa Rick and their ' _adventures_ '.

[so much _fun,_ aren't they? where you can green-light psychological warfare and witness men completely emulsified to pink, fleshy, pulp-] Summer swallows convulsively and grips the steering wheel tighter, knuckles blanching white from the pressure. She feels anger swell in the place where despair and disgust had been brewing in her gut. Shouldn't Mom and Dad have noticed that Morty's so tired? Shouldn't they have s _aid_ something about maybe _not_ going on so many ' _adventures_ ' with an old man that they really only barely even know? Why didn't Mom put her foot down? Why did Grandpa Rick get to wander around and do whatever the hell he wanted and get a free pass on practically _everything_ when Mom could barely give a shit if Summer could get to school or not?

Summer heaves a sigh, mind turning once more towards the murder hotel her school had become in the span of a few short weeks. Maybe Mom and Dad were useless and Rick was maliciously inconsiderate and the teachers were willfully obtuse and the police were bumbling incompetents but Summer would be damned if she let it get any farther when [you have to _protect_ him. So what if no one is protecting you? So _what_?! He's your _l_ _ittle brother_ and Sharon was _in his class-_ ] she has the ability to put an end to it.

* * *

Marriage is vastly overrated in Summer's opinion. The only thing it's ever brought the people she knows most intimately engaged in it, is inconvenience and dissatisfaction _[you're_ the inconvenience, the whole _reason_ they're dissatisfied] _._ And those people are Beth and Jerry Smith.

Late in the evening and Mom's in the bedroom, already drinking herself into a stupor while Dad's thankfully out. Unfortunately, that means the car is out with him and Summer's as stranded as a sailor marooned on a desert island with a single palm tree for shade. Ethan's out of commission, his mom's hosting some fundraiser; he wasn't too clear on the details. Mischa's taking an uber that Summer can't afford [and if you tell her she'll pay the bill and then you'll be a burden and no one _likes_ someone who can't pull their own weight-] and Jen lives so far away that it wouldn't be worth it.

That leaves one last option and Summer's not asking him. She just doesn't want to deal with Rick's rude insinuations and character assassinations coupled with the general malaise of someone suffering from crippling existential nihilism stoppered only by a raging substance abuse problem. Summer's not in the mood to navigate that minefield just for the sake of getting a ride.

Morty's camped on the couch downstairs surrounded by half the snack cupboard, eyes glued to the screen blaring a show that looks just off enough to be on intergalactic cable. Summer shudders when she recognizes the theme of Ball Fondlers and slinks past to the garage; mercifully empty, where she takes down the bike hung up between the power tools and a shelf containing, among other things, a cardboard box labelled ' _Time Travel_ '.

She walks it down to the edge of the driveway and hops on, following the coordinates Toby Matthews had given her which she'd plugged into her phone. The wind in her hair and the night ahead of her, she doesn't look back as she pedals, heedless of the spike-haired figure of Rick Sanchez, beer bottle dangling from one hand as he watches her go.


End file.
